the year book

you find the ancient
year book in a closet,
in a box, in the basement.
buried deep beneath old
checks and bank
statements. a reunion
invite is stuck to the front
of the hard blue book.
you peel it off
and throw it towards
the trash can.
you open the book
and see the signed
greetings and farewells
of hardly friends,
no lovers, just children
thinking of clever things
to say, but there are none.
remember home room,
the parade,
the floats we made.
remember the time you pulled
the alarm
and sent us all out
into the pouring rain,
don't ever change one
reads. at seventeen such
a tall order to obey,
but you've tried.